And he didn't even call...

A North American Desperate Pickle (above) makes a rare appearance at a chic SoHo beer event. 

Recognizable by his near-perfect spherical cranium, ruddy good looks, and menacing gaze, 

this specimen confronts a potential mate (not pictured) about her various insecurities. 

This torch is awfully sticky...

My god, what's happened to this place? Posts! posts as far as the eye can see!

Well as you can see, your good friend Poop Snacks is back. It's been a few years, but don't you worry, I think you'll find not much has changed. I'm still incredibly tech-savvy, still a god-like figure to my two cats, and still possess that devilish taste for satire you surely quickly forgot.

Sadly, some things have changed. As the late, great Bea Arthur has taught us, time makes us unbearably ugly and our children rich off our labor. Unsightly I've most certainly become: three years of syphilitic face-blisters will do that to ya. My midnight webcamming has lost all followers. As for the children - well, I did get married (hence the name change). No progeny have been detected in my wife as of late. But fear not, dear readers: you will be the first to know when a little fleshy blessing, descended from my testicle, enters this world.

What else? Well, life has been filled with surprises. I saw Bob Saget in concert. Umm. I found out he was Jewish (he told us).  I also learned he plays the guitar. Let's see...Oh, I went to a hockey game and sat really, really close. Like, next to a AP photographer. There's a comment section below if you want to hear how I got the tickets. Suffice it to say, I got them from a little fellow I like to call My Dad.

I suppose that's about enough catching up for one post. Coming to you live from a nearby desk-chair, this is Mr. Doug typing, Goodnight.

A World Without Internet

I am in the process of moving and am going to New Orleans this weekend for Poop Snacks' bachelor party. How we all grow up. Anyway, in the interim between houses, I have no Internet.

All business is conducted from my iPhone. And by "business" I mean, of course, porno watching and various sundry types of whoremongering. 

My world has been reduced to the size of an impeccably HD three inch screen. I'm even writing this post from my phone. And I remember a time when the Internet charged you by the minute and it was through a 14k modem and you couldn't talk on the phone and be online at the same time. And masturbating was really just comprised of the anticipation of waiting for that one fake nude picture of Sarah Michelle Gellar to finish loading.

A simpler time.

Off to the land of gumbo, jazz, and public drunkenness. Adieu.

How hard could it be?

I was wearing my tightest pants today, which is already an admission because I have a large ass and the prettiest pink thighs you can't get your hands around.  Trying to do that is like trying to choke a rhinocerous at a dry wedding.  It's not happening, pal.  Sometimes I try to cheat and touch my thumbs together and HNNNGGGGG myself forward to get my middle fingers to touch but god damn it, that rhinocerous must do shrugs all damn day because his airway is unconstricted and the Bride is a reformed Mormon who just can't stand the evils of the intemperenace.

But look, these were my tightest pants, okay?  So you probably know where this is going.  Yep.  I looked down and I wondered...hmmm "I could probably get a thigh gap if I wanted".  These are not normal, appropriate thoughts.  These are not thoughts I used to have.  These are not thoughts anyone but twitter-obsessed 13 year old girls have.  Well, those girls and yours truly.  And then I laughed at myself, because I have thick, stupid thighs.  To create a gap would involve having me ride an overturned barrel and then breaking both of my kneecaps so my shins jut in sideways beneath me, so I look like an enormous pacifier ring that has a torso instead of a rubber nipple.

What the hell was I thinking?  But still- lunges should do, it right guys?  Guys?

And now: A Word from Jason Collins

Hi Everyone!

Yep, it's me, Jason Collins!

I don't know what all the fuss is about. Really. I mean, it's 2013 and we're not ready for a gay NBA player? Here we are, in the new millenium, and people are this freaked out about the thought of my beautiful lips around another man's cock?

What's the big deal? Look, I get it. I'm the first one to come out while playing professional ball. But I'm sure as hell not the first tall, handsome man to want to sink his tall, handsome, turgid member deep into another man. Hell no! Shit, there've been plenty of guys before me. Plenty of sexy, butch guys, with strong jaw-lines, exquisitely sculpted butts, and just the right amount hair on their chests who enjoy the sights, smells and tastes of other similarly gorgeous men.

What? You're telling me the thought of penetrating a man's tight yet welcoming anus in the missionary position while simultaneously stimulating his growing erection isn't a little intriguing to you? Okay, well how about being taken from behind, entered powerfully yet slowly until your prostate is hit in just the right way to push you inexorably towards an earth-shattering orgasm while his supple pectoral muscles press into your back?

No?

C'mon man. In the 2010-11 season, I had a better field goal shooting percentage than Kobe, Chris Paul, Carmelo Anthony AND the suspiciously named Rudy Gay. And I did it in Atlanta. ATLANTA. You got any idea how hard it is to score a sexy twink in Atlanta? This ain't Chelsea. Or San Francisco. Shit, it ain't even Austin, TX. But I put up those numbers without nearly the sexual relief accorded to my straight counterparts. Except when we played the Lakers. Hoooweee! I met a guy in West Hollywood. We went for sushi, had some lovely conversation and then when straight back to my hotel room, put on a cock ring and just went to town. Because that's how I roll. Put up 20 points and 15 rebounds against Kobe and the Lakers the next night! Boom! Nothing like the taste of perineum to get you riled up for a big game.

So get the fuck over it. Pussies.

Recurring Nightmares

"It all started with a dream", or so it reads to our right. Each morning I fall awake, startled and stumbling, grasping for purchase at a thing not forgotten and never lost. How many mornings has it been? How many dreams have gone un-posted? How many nightmares denied a place in the scripture?

But then there is a calling; not a summons. A mention of sinners and saints whispered in long-abandoned halls, their vibrations like a thousand tiny knives causing the cob-webs of creativity to quiver and flutter, to dance and die upon floors carpeted in ash.

I drew an mspaint of a naked woman on a cliff this afternoon, wearing an eye-patch, hair tussled in the back-blast of a rocket launcher which she holds tightly between her skirt-less thighs, all the while screaming with laughter.
The rocket launcher shoots geckos.
There is a skull by her feet, and it is weeping.

"I knew a terrible fear..."

The Gaunlet

Thrown, you ask? Picked up, I say. And then dropped. And fumbled. And possibly used to lubricate and forcefully enter something. But a gauntlet must be answered.

There.

That feels better.

A Canadian Tuxedo reunion:

It's good to be back.

Two Years. Two Days.

"Forgive me Father for I have Sinned.  It has been two years and two days since my last confession."

Oh mah hunny bunny.  My spaceship bride.  How could I have done this to you?  Once my most beloved plaything, my pixellated-pixie of an English Channel that I swam every day- why?  Because you were there.  Of course you were, we carved you out of the interspace and filled you with fun foolishness and spirited nonsense.  I let you languish.  I left you in New York, along with sweaty trainrides.  But I don't need to go back there to get one of those two things into my life again.  We left you in a Cleveland basement.  We abandoned you, ripe words rotting on the virtual vine.

The Calvalry is coming, baby.  Even if it's just me carrying a sack of potatoes and screaming in my underwear. Two Years, Two Days, Too Long.

I needed you more than you needed me.